


my ally-moron.

by steponmealloveragain



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Possessive America (Hetalia), Post-World War I, Post-World War II, Swearing, Toxic Relationship, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29167347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steponmealloveragain/pseuds/steponmealloveragain
Summary: about Anglo-American relationship from start to finish.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42





	1. it's just a kiss.

They won. England sat in a bar next to Russia and America, they drank and for once were all happy. Germany sat between America and Russia. He was silent with unusually sloppy, overgrown strands of hair, pointing his nose into the floor.

In fact, no one was happy. England, resting his head, looked at the tabletop and wondered if Alfred and Braginsky understood what a difficult situation that they were in. When there was a mutual enemy, disagreements backed away to the background for a moment and now there was, perhaps, the rarest chance to rewrite history and stop being rivals for once. And this chance with each passed minute of silence became more and more unreachable.

The funny thing is that Arthur knew roughly what the problem was, but he was not going to solve it. In front of him were two heroes. One is self-proclaimed, and the second has earned this title with blood and millions of sacrificed lives. And the whole world, except for themselves, understood this. Although Braginsky probably also understood, but Kirkland would not vouch for his sanity now, so there was no point in that.

Two wars in one century, world war went like a rollercoaster across all countries. They became weaker, and someone, like Arthur himself or Braginsky, was completely on the edge. Because they didn't give up. Although before the start of the war, which is ironic, both tried to save their own skin signing the pact of bullshit, and both were out of their mind, revealing each other’s viciousness once neither followed given promises. Well, at least, they redeemed it with time, especially Ivan.

Yes, everyone had suffered. Except for...England glanced at the carefree whiskey drinker Alfred and for a second he felt anger as he hurried to knock over another rum. The outburst of anger was suppressed by a drink burning down his throat, and Arthur approached the said thought much more calmer.

Jones lost people, of course, but in comparison with the same Braginsky it was very little. And this is what he received…Money from all of Europe, gold from all of Europe, obligations, recognition. But most of all, the fact that now the US dollar will be the global currency for many years, that fetters all countries with chains of debt to Jones, has already exceeded all his losses. It remains to be unknown whether over time this damn piece of paper will leave the world stage or take over. England was seriously afraid of the second. No, Alfred just grew stronger.

"Hey, old man! What are you so depressed about?" He was tapped on the shoulder with bearish force. Thank god, though, it wasn't the injured one. "Come on, let's drink for the victory once again. Braginsky, let's drink!"

Kirkland, looking up from the contemplation of the old traces on the floor, with a well-honed movement banged his glass right between the glasses of America and Russia, knocked the piece down his throat and lay down on his folded hands, looking ahead. But what he saw was not a bar, but the ruins of Berlin, where Ivan and Alfred collided with foreheads over the apathetic Ludwig who had clenched his knees. Sometimes England was surprised by the faces of these two, he just physically felt the tension and hostility of the recent allies. Then he silently stood next to America, looking only at the trembling shoulders of Germany, knowing that he had done everything he could. But now the same situation was brewing. It was necessary to urgently solve something.

"Hey, Germany, why aren't you clinging glasses? It's really not like we're toasting at your own funerals, ha ha ha ha, well said, huh?" America's harsh laugh cut the air over the table. England sometimes thinks that if America could read the atmosphere, he would fleet away long ago from embarrassment into a black hole. But alas…

“Leave him alone.” Braginsky said quietly, while America made an attempt to look into Germany’s face, which made him turn away, revealing himself to the Russia’s sight.

"And why the hell would I do it?" displeased Jones stretched out, putting his hand on Ludwig's shoulder. "He’s my prisoner, after all, so there’s nothing wrong with it."

England got close. Here it is, the stumbling tension between the allies. And this tension will very easily grow into a literal bomb of consequences.

Russia cleared his throat, somehow deliberately.

"Ludwig is mine. I fought him since the forties. I have every right to decide his fate. So stay out of where you weren’t even involved, Jones." He put his arm around the German's shoulders, who turned away from him too. Arthur looked him in the eye. He remembered the days of the war, but now Germany was frankly pathetic.

"England, what are you doing? Do something!" America is pushing his shoulder again. This time it's the injured one and Arthur grimaces. "So what do you think, who has more rights to have the sausage maker? This guy here," a wide, sweeping gesture towards the exhausted, inadequate, pale Braginsky. "or the Hero?"

"Can I tell you something without witnesses?" England asked cautiously.

"What?" Jones frowned, and Arthur winced inwardly, staring intently into America's eyes.

"For a few words, America. Braginsky, would you mind?"

“Don’t worry. As long as Ludwug is here I won’t go anywhere.” the Russian smiled, his eyes shining with purple glee.

Alfred frowned even harder, getting up and rushing after Arthur to the exit.

"What?" he demanded an answer, once the door between the general hall and the corridor was closed.

Arthur glanced grimly at him, striding rapidly in the light of the overly bright lamps. Beneath them, his military uniform looked even more shredded, and Jones's favorite jacket, on the other hand, gleamed softly with a fur collar. And no, he didn't want to think how tired the American looked in that harsh light too.

"And why was it not impossible to go to the lavatory to talk?" Alfred grumbled displeased, walking into the street, where a fine spring rain began.

"Because you're an idiot." England snorted. "So that we can always keep an eye if Braginsky decides to leave with Ludwig. And lavatory also has ears everywhere. This is not to mention the simple thing that this is actually a toilet."

"What did you want?" Alfred interrupted him. Well, straight to the point, huh.

“Don't act rude to Russia,” Arthur said shortly and glared at Jones.

"Eh?" America responded completely foolishly.

“Try to be gentle with him.” England repeated patiently. "Usually I excused your actions for your juvenility, but now nobody cares about it. You have to grow up and be more judicious starting from now on."

"Come on! Now that I am the Hero who defeated the villain, and I have every right to decide his worthless fate. And no Russian peasants are a thread to me!"

"You will instantly turn from a hero into a moron, once you get a portion of pipe down your head!" Arthur flared up, poking Alfred's forehead with his finger. "Damn, have you even heard of such a thing as diplomacy, or the war also drove you crazy?"

"What are you talking about, Artie?" England inwardly boiled over instantly, but outwardly ignores disdain. "I did everything the right way, what the fuck are you unhappy with?"

"Have you ever thought that you can still do things the right manner in very different ways? Softer, more restrained, for instance."

"I'm not going to mumble and smear like some loser!"

"Not to mumble, you fool! It's just called being polite. Sometimes it is simply necessary: to indicate your position, but not to start demanding it right away. Especially if others have a completely different view of it. And especially if the others," he nodded pointedly toward the bar. "have just won the war as well. Only," he could not restrain himself any longer. "that they really did win, having lost a lot of people and resources, and did not show up well-fed and well-groomed with everything ready!" The words were not entirely fair, but they reflected the essence.

"So I do not understand, are you talking about Braginsky or about yourself?" Alfred narrowed his eyes.

"That's not the point." England suppressed the impulse to question back whether or not America actually acknowledged England’s efforts too. "It's just that Russia is mentally unstable. He is in a state of PTSD, and it is not known what could piss him off. You have to be careful, that's all I want to say!"

"Great, if that's all, then I'm going back." America turned away, taking a hold of the handle.

"Do you understand?" Kirkland did not budge, looking closely at Alfred. "Try to talk to Russia normally. If anything, I can help, just stay out of the argument."

“I’ll manage somehow without your help.” America dismissed, entering and holding the door. "Come in or get soaked there, since you’re such a killjoy."

Walking back down the same corridor, Arthur stared intently at America. The clenched jaw, the icy glare out his glasses. It was before that he understood the path that America followed: the thirst for recognition by others, the teenage crisis, and finally participation in adult matters. It was then that Alfred aroused sympathy and keen interest in England.

And now Jones has become arrogant, not thinking about others in the slightest and caring only for himself. This is not spontaneity or naivety, this is a plain rudeness and his selfishness, and these qualities were too often seen in Alfred.

England once again thought that if he kept America for a little more as a ward, the result would be much more ... socially acceptable. But what can he do now. Now he himself was trying not to accidentally fall into baby Jones’s hands. And this damned war, damned Nazi cowards who strengthened America, gave him carte blanche against the rest of Europe, weakened and divided. Arthur could only walk close, behind his back, without getting directly into America's field of vision and not leading him to think of anything danger. Preserving his freedom and his colonies.

“Hey, England.” America turned around before entering the bar. "I do not want to give up Germany. No. Not to that maniac. And you better not kick in. Clear?"

"If the situation seems critical to me, or if I see a better option, I will "kick in", got it?" Arthur coldly snapped, walking ahead of Jones to the door that was ajar. “So it's in your best interest to behave yourself."

He did not look Alfred in the eye, just as he would not do it with Braginsky. Jones said nothing or did anything, shook his head and walked behind England to the table. Ludwig was already lying on it, showing no signs of consciousness, and Braginsky, leaning his elbows on the table, looked at him through the bottom of the glass.

"Hey, Russia, I'm back!" Alfred sat astride a chair, grabbing his glass. "Did you miss me, eh, ha, ha?"

"I got tired of waiting." Russia drawled monotonously, shifting his gaze sunken, feverish eyes on England. "I’m even wondering what you told him there."

"Well, nothing special." Arthur sat down on his previous seat, ignoring America's displeased look, drummed his fingers on the table and for some reason took Ludwig's glass nervously. "And I'm wondering how many drinks you had while we were gone."

“I don’t know, but he took a couple of these and fell.” Russia said with a smile.

"So this sausage maker fell off five beers?" England was sincerely surprised.

"No, the last ones were not beer, but just vodka." Braginsky explained in a chant.

"Well, why did you pump him with vodka?" America interjected very "in time". "He was already feeling shitty and now you pulled this trick. Great job! And you also want to have a part of him. Yes, I’m sure you will end him and not even blink!"

“I won’t end him.” Russia assured all the same affectionately, but behind him was a dark aura. “He didn't end me when he had a chance and I won't either. I have totally different plans, yeah."

"Can you explain?" Arthur asked hopefully.

"I will let you try to guess." This tone and smile sent chills down England’s spine. "Oh, England. You're the smart guy. If you can guess correctly I'll let you have a piece of Germany." Russia leaned forward, and America sparkled from behind him with drinks, again losing a track in this dialogue.

“You want revenge,” England said affirmatively. "And…no, not even revenge, but to teach a lesson. Make it clear what the real strength of the nation is. Isn’t it right, Braginsky? Only you won't succeed."

“And first of all it won't work because I'm not going to share Germany.” Jones snapped, also moving to the center of the table.

"My government," Braginsky began, putting the glass on the table with a thud. "is going to take the chance to prove to everyone that even such a hopeless country as Nazi Germany can be set on the right path. And it seems to me that if I suddenly miss this chance, their displeasure will be too inventive, yes. So don't be offended, Alfred but you won't see Germany."

"And in my opinion, Russia, you do not understand with whom you are talking with!" England was watching. Therefore, when Russia ran his free hand under the table, Arthur's boot was already aimed at Alfred's ankle. "The hero is not going to…ouch!"

Jones stopped short, and Kirkland jumped into the conversation, ignoring the almost undisguised threat in Alfred's eyes. But Braginsky, hesitating, returned his hand to the table, and there was no pipe in it.

"You can’t reach an agreement if you’re going to fight like this. If you just want to fight like two drunk idiots: go ahead, I'll probably enjoy the show. But that's not how things are going to be. Wanting to run Germany and see which way is better is a great plan. And I have an idea on how to improve it."

"How exactly?" Russia asked.

"We will all get a piece of the territory, and everyone get to do what they want." England casually spilled the beans and added, seeing how realizations starts hitting his allies. "So we will see who was right, on fair terms based on each results."

Both of them snorted, but England was not offended.

"Stop." Alfred narrowed his eyes. "And which side are you on here? The conversation was between me and Russia."

"Hey, I also participated in the war. Did you forget? And you and I are completely different countries, America, isn't that what you celebrate every year? So I will not be against the plan to compare your and my methods."

America bowed his head so that the spectacles completely covered his eyes, and it was impossible to read something behind them.

"I agree!" Suddenly Russia’s cheerful voice rang. His aura had completely lost its dark color, he looked pleased. "This is a great solution. And Berlin is mine!"

“No, no.” growled Jones, annoyed. "You will not get the capital city."

"Listen, America, do you think the southwest or northwest would suit Francis better?" Braginsky asked innocently. "I think it would be north."

"I absolutely don’t care about ...wait, what?! Do you want him to…?" America turned a little pale.

"Indeed. So what? For science, so to speak. He will get his own part: little scarlet, but still."

“He'll be pleased.” England drawled thoughtfully. "He will be the Europe’s representative. America, I love this idea. And Braginsky is even ready to share Berlin with you on this occasion, if, of course, you still want it. Right, Braginsky?" Russia tilted his head to the side, looking at Kirkland with a smile. Then he nodded slowly.

"Sure, England. Only I want to divide Berlin not between Jones and myself, but between socialism and capitalism."

“Very kind of you.” Arthur quickly interrupted Jones's possible protests.

America was digesting prospects. They turned out to be something like the food England made for him - is it really tasty?

* * *

They walked home together. Him and America, to be more specific. And to England’s house. If someone had asked Arthur, Kirkland would admit that the last thing he needed was a company, especially with one disgruntled American. But Alfred, thrusting his hands into his pockets, walked alongside, and did not intend to ask England's opinion. Arthur had already thought that he would be escorted peacefully till the door in silence and left alone.

“So what the hell did you end up doing?" Jones asked suddenly as they turned down the alley leading to the Kirkland's house. "I told you not to interfere. And you did not just kicked in, but in the end you dragged yourself and this long-haired wine lover into our contract with Russia!"

“Oh, you're so angry,” England stated. "I warned you."

"Really? Was the situation that critical?"

“If you haven't noticed, Russia has already reached for his pipe.” Kirkland smiled derisively. "I could, of course, remain silent and enjoy all the beauty of my ally-moron, but I decided that it was not worth it."

"Yeah, of course.” Jones snorted. "And the fact that otherwise Braginsky and I would have divided Germany ourselves has nothing to do with it."

“Of course it does.” England nodded. “You don’t think with your small brains, do you? This is how Russia got a third of the territory, and not half, as it would undoubtedly have happened without my participation.” he admired the elongated face of America. “So we won, Alfie."

"This is on condition that we will be exactly what we are, inseparably and invariably." It was Arthur's turn to drop his jaw. "You mean it, right?"

"Well, yes, of course." but he was always quick to adapt. “We're like a team of capitalists against the red threat, haha. You, Francis and me."

"And I am much more satisfied with the option of _us_ and Francis." They were already approaching the porch, but Arthur was in no hurry to grab his keys. "He doesn't decide anything. You, the British Empire, are a very important ally on the other hand.” Jones hesitated. Kirkland is already sensing a storm.

"And why are you telling me this?" the piles of keys dug into his palm when he squeezed his hand in his pocket, going up one step instinctively. Now Alfred was looking up to him and it gave him confidence. "Our bosses have already signed a hell of a lot of papers, as you remember it, that assure, promise, guarantee and so on, so on. Personally, you are still only demonstrating your displease over my actions which is quite hypocritical of you."

"That's the point!" Jones looked pretty suspicious now. "I want to back up our agreement with something more essential than words and stacks of paper ... Hey, why aren’t you going in?"

"Oi, let's discuss it here. No need to pull a whole ceremony just for this." England’s laugh sounded fake even to himself.

"Are you afraid of me now?" the obnoxious Jones asked head-on. "Like all these other European cowards?"

Now all countries that had decent sense feared America. And it seems that the said nation has learned to read the atmosphere and what’s needed. Or exactly the opposite, since it was really unnecessary to bring it up at this moment.

"Are you an idiot?" Arthur snapped. "I’m just getting tired of you. I was going to have a rest and not listen to your crazy ideas."

"Come on, I’m here for just a minute." Alfred had already jumped ahead of Arthur on the stairs, surprisingly resembling a needy puppy. “Come on, England, hurry up, it’s not like you.” Kirkland cocked his head to the side, looking at him. A damn huge puppy, though. And not stupid at all.

“Come on in.” Arthur said, holding the heavy, secure door and fighting the urge to slam it in front of America. "At least you will have some tea instead this rubbish of yours."

Jones entered. The door closed.

* * *

While Kirkland was making tea, Alfred sat and looked with a smile. At him. That would have been okay without taking into account all the misunderstandings, but right now England was nervous. He blurted a cup in front of America, nearly spilling it. He did not sit down himself, leaning his elbows on the bar counter, which separated a small chunk with a sink and other things on it from a thick oak strip. It was now separating England from America.

He took a long gulp. Unfortunately for England, the traitorous tea was caught in the wrong throat and Kirkland coughed, trying to catch his breath. He raised his hand, stopping the Hero rushing to help but this gesture was completely ignored. America grabbed Arthur's shoulder and patted him lovingly several times on the back, pouring out the tea.

"Khe-kh-fuck off." England hissed as soon as he could catch a breath of air. “I’ll hit you on the forehead if you don’t.” America grunted and dropped his hand, however, not letting go of Kirkland’s shoulder. He glanced frowningly and broke free. "I said, _fuck off_!"

“Easy, gentleman.” Alfred held up his hands in a surrendering gesture. "What about thanking me?"

“You’ll be fine just without it.” England was still catching his breath. "Why are still standing like that? The tea is getting cold!" He glanced sideways at the empty cup in his hand. "And because of you I will have to make a new one."

Kirkland took the kettle from the stove and walked with it to the sink, twice discontentedly walking over Jones, who was standing in a narrow nook, and began pouring a new portion of water. Alfred meanwhile, at last, went near the table, only to return with his barely opened cup.

“Drink mine instead." he suggested, bringing the edge to his lips.

Arthur, over the sound of the water, did not hear America so when he was doused with warmth behind his back and Jones's large palms holding the cup in front of his nose, he could barely restrain himself not to gave in to reflexes: releasing the handle of the kettle and hitting him with the back of his head, pulling the hand down in front of them, twisting America’s wrist, turning around, kicking his knee from the side.

All countries had these reflexes, but in England’s case they practically lived their own lives since the old pirate days. But instead he simply raised his free hand, pushing the porcelain material away from him. He frowned in displeasure, looking over his shoulder.

"Twat. I could have made you collect your Texas all over the floor in no seconds."

"So what?" Alfred asked, putting down the cup. "Real allies should be closer to each other than just people who were only _forced_ to join forces despite the complicated history." Arthur shuddered. "Well, I think."

"What are you talking about now?" Turning slowly, Kirkland asked, holding the kettle with both hands at chest level. He had a thought that the notorious reflexes are sometimes happens to be wise and even have their own intuition. And one more note taken that for them with Alfred this particular kitchen was definitely not big enough. "Move your arse, I'll put the water on."

"Give it to me." Jones literally grabbed the kettle from him and shoved it on the stove, not leaving or even turning away. “I have a better idea than your stupid tea."

“You are the stupid one here.” England blurted, slowly giving up. "Although this idea is certainly worth being yours. Well, share with me, Alfie, what's on your mind?" But Alfred didn't even scowled at his old nickname.

The truth was, they both knew what was wrong. Kirkland had no idea when it had hit America's thick skull, but it all became very clear for him when he stood on his porch and did not know how to kick this idiot out. Well, he can’t just agree with him that, yes, he’s bloody afraid. Because he was not, but just one thought that someone for the first time in several centuries ... someone - no! That little baby Jones, America is not just someone, but the most painful option for the self-esteem of his if he gives in.

“I want to reinforce our partnership,” Alfred said solemnly. "Once and for all."

"Hmm?" England raised an eyebrow. "Are we getting married then?"

America leaned forward even further when England’s raised his arms to lay on America's chest, resting firmly, attesting to stop further actions. The Yankee chuckled and instead extended his neck, lips moving closer to Arthur's. He had two options: to move back, pressing himself against the sink or push him away. The first led to a defeat, but the second was very likely to fail.

So Kirkland found a third one. He bent slightly in the lower back, so that America gradually loomed over him, shifting the center of gravity. He waited until the firm lips were close enough, then squeezed the fabric of Jones's shirt over his chest and yanked forward, slipping himself sideways. A counter hit his back painfully, but while Alfred was regaining his balance, England was already calmly adjusting the kettle, lighting the stove. Now all left to do was to put on a unperturbed face and never mention this again. And pray to God that America won’t turn into a complete moron next minutes.

"So what is your idea?" he asked, deliberately not noticing how the American clenched his fists, anger bubbling behind the spectacles.

"Obviously, you don’t like it." Jones smiled, approaching, and England for the first time openly backed away, with a shudder thinking about two other countries at once, in each of which he saw this particular expression on America’s face right now.

Russia. Damn it, he thought postwar Russia was the only dangerous psychopath out there. And he did not even think about America who being much younger and it would seem more subtle, looked at the war from outside until the last moment. The one who called himself a Hero, but in fact prudently waited, selling weapons and food to heartless countries, while they bombed England, while they burned and blew up Russia.

Germany. No, not like that. Nazi Germany. And yes, America traded with Ludwig as well (England knew for sure, he noticed the marking with a proud eagle when Germany dragged him to the prison sell under the outraged screams of the Vargas brothers). But he didn't take it into account at the time. After all, America stood at his bedside later, asked, worriedly. "Does that belong to Germany?" Wasn’t he supposed to be someone that would know it for sure?

He still did not see this coming: he appeared beside him in a short time. The United States. America. Mighty, immaturely greedy. And cruel, like a child who does not take no for an answer, because he clenches throats that disagree in his fists.

And their governments signed an agreement.

And he let Jones come over to his house.

“You respect the boundaries of your allies, right, Alfred? It’s foolish after all to hope to seal our union like this. Do you remember what I taught you? Of course, I don’t like the idea."

Arthur walked away, but now pretending that he urgently needed to get something out the sideboard. His brain literally buzzed with tension as his nerves drained from shock. Well, there was an advantage in this instantly surging horrible situation: now, thanks to the huge adrenaline rush in his head, thoughts were spinning like mad. And they all said that fighting was not an option. At least because Alfred, with his newfound super-power, will smear anyone on the wall.

“I remember.” America said hoarsely. "And I myself do not understand when and why I began to not care about it."

“Ha.” from this nervous “ha” that distilled madness, that filled Alfred's eyes, trembled. "America, you fell in love."

"So what?" There was not even a shadow of embarrassment on America's face. He did not come closer, stopped in mid-way, crunching his fingers.

"You have to think with your head, and not ... Florida, or what else you call it there?" Arthur shook his head in mock disapproval. "You’re just getting on this stage, and if you grab other actors in an armful grab and knock them out of the role at your whim, you will quickly fly back where you came from."

“But it seems to me that Ludwig didn’t care what kind of theater you all set up there in your Europe.” England's fists clench in irritation.

"And where is Ludwig now? It seems like we were splitting him just two hours ago."

“He never had as much power as I did.” Jones said, closing the already meager distance between them. “And he almost got to fuck you in all holes, Artie!" he jumped up, pouting but Alfred was not going to shut up, the smile on his face turned into a grin. "Come on, you generally became his voluntary whore behind my back, and now you say that you do not want to be with me. What the hell?"

With the last words, he grimaces in irritation, grabbing England by the wrists, and looks reproachfully. He lifts his chin and gives Jones a long stare.

“I tried to keep my people out of the war, if you don’t understand it. And if you had supported me more clearly in 1939, I would never have gone to Germany with such a proposal." America gets angrier at these words, his fingers are painfully digging into his skin. But now Arthur can no longer shut up, his too beautiful, proper for America accent ringing in the ears. "But no, you also traded tools and equipment with him, Jones you the peacemaker! And when your government forced mine to declare war on Germany, you watched me being bombed and didn’t do a damn thing!"

Alfred even lets England out when he practically spits the words out in his face. His eyes are narrowed, the green in them is filled with poison-like anger. He himself takes America by his jacket and pulls over, looking right in his eyes through the glasses.

"You're an adult, America. Then act like one and not like a child who does not know what is right and what is wrong but wants the whole world to revolve around him. I don't want to see you like this."

It's a risk, but England has taken it, and America is almost shaken by his composure. But he still grabs Arthur's arms, prying open his grip on his clothes, and takes two elephant-like steps, pinning Kirkland's wrists against the wall. Sees him frown. Gets excited as England's body trembles as he tries to rip his hands off his beige walls. And he feels America’s triumph in his blood, under his skin, on his face. He moves closer.

"I ... want ... you …" only these three words, although it’s so easy to put others words in between that can change the meaning entirely. But even America pronounces these words so slowly as if they are draining all the energy out of him.

"Yes, I get it." England looks back coldly. "But I don’t want you in return much. What are you gonna do about it, baby Jones?" from such words as "baby" is enough for America to sharply move towards England, literally pressing their noses into each other.

He takes a deep breath, but America can feel the tremor in his throat as it resonates somewhere in his chest. A thin ribbon of air slides over his face, igniting a streak of heat. Arthur looks straight ahead, his eyes resembling huge snake ones with its flare.

“I’ll still try.” America says, and those eyes squint, fists clench over Alfred’s fingers, and lips (deliberately or subconsciously) merge into a thin line. But Jones had already decided.

He slides England's wrists over his head and presses them with one hand while holding his lean chin with the other. The thought flashes in his head that only super-strength allows him to do this with the British Empire. And this thought (that America is much stronger now) intoxicates as well as whiskey would, pouring out recklessness and excitement. In Jones's mind England is not stony silent, clenching his fists but instead moaning dully with passion, not despair, and biting his lip with desire, not anger. America bites his reddened lip with his own, runs the tongue over it but behind it there is a row of tightly shut teeth. Pretty sharp, he thinks.

"England." he reluctantly looks up from other's lips. "Just accept your defeat. I don't want to hit you, it's just a kiss."

England is dying from each of these words. Taken together, they exacerbate the pain, and the look of half-crazy, content Jones is a great addition.

America knows that there is a crazy, impatient smile on his lips. There is no apology in it and no embarrassment. He looks into the England’s eyes and watches them close in a daze. It's silent, except for Kirkland's bitter grin. And Alfred becomes sad and lonely without that previous green flare.

“I am the Hero.” he whispers, and his lips cover the lips of the frozen man in front of him once again. He involuntarily throws back Arthur's head when he steps into the next stage and enters the mouth with his tongue, persistently examining him, impatiently waiting for those thin, delicate eyelids to open.

“Open your eyes.” he pulls away for a split second, receiving no answer.

England wants to leave. Just get out and wait until it's over. Yes. He lost. He won the war, partly even outplayed Russia, but did not notice (drawing horror and emptiness inside of him), did not notice what Alfred Jones had become. And now he will have to pay an exorbitant price. The kiss and what follows after is such nonsense compared to what awaits the country as a payback for its blindness and one-sidedness.

America again feels how the Arthur’s hands are straining, pressed, as if nailed to the wall, as a quiet shiver goes through his body. And this only makes it harder to keep him from wanting more. He deepens the kiss as he sweeps across the insides of England’s mouth. His hand drops his chin and moves to the back between his shoulder blades, pressing with all his might, squeezing out a convulsive gasp that tickles his lips. Oh _yes_.

"Open your eyes." and he opens, striking for years, centuries of experienced losses.

But it’s the shivers, and Jones is filled with its display on England, pressing even tighter, crumpling Arthur’s uniform on his back. It’s not enough for him, really not enough but it would be fucking stupid if he broke England's spine in a fit of passion.

The funny thing, Arthur thought, trying to breathe the air, squeezed in the arms of America, was that he already fantasized about America in this way. When after the First World War he was all attacked and weakened, they talked a lot. And somehow while watching «Gone with the Wind», Kirkland was amazed at how similar he and America are to Rhett and Scarlett. They were, damn it, similar, he thought, while Jones, almost breaks his wrists, lowers them down, grabbing him now by the waist. Only that he was Scarlett, cleverly and purposefully walking in the wrong direction. And after all, he then teased Alfred that there were no American women for the main role. Ironically, yes, pretty much.

America finally notices that England's eyes are closing again and even rolling back. That even an idiot would understand that this is not because of the great love. And Alfred was not an idiot, so he pulls out from Arthur's completely red and wet lips. Licking his own, without hiding.

When Alfred releases him, Arthur thinks three hours have passed. But on the huge clock above the fireplace, the pointer did not even go from one division to another. He watches this clock while trying to make himself somewhat presentable, at least, from the outside. He can’t stand the idea of standing only thanks to America’s hands around his waist.

“You taste like tea.” America says. He is without his glasses (they flew off at some point, and now Arthur can hardly control himself so as not to step on them on the floor purposely).

"And you taste like hamburgers with cola. A terrible combination, by the way." Kirkland speaks in a weak but firm voice. His lips glisten in the light of the light bulb above, and America wants to run a finger over them, but he still holds England.

“It's not a problem.” America smiles, and then just snorts, remembering something. "You know perfectly well that chewing gums don’t only plug holes."

"Not the best time to bring it up, don’t you think? Maybe you can also remember what happened two centuries ago?"

Arthur finally regains his balance by himself, raises his hand, wiping his lips with his sleeve, removing that magnetic shine. For some reason, this gesture infuriates America terribly and he pushes England, bends over with him, picking up his spectacles from the floor.

"I remember everything. Otherwise, you know, I wouldn't be so careful. Imagine Russia in my place, for example." Kirkland shudders because he really does imagines. For the first time, it seems to him that things are not that bad. Perhaps America has not yet fully realized how much power he has.

"Now what? I doubt that you need me in such way."

"What makes you think that?" Alfred asks mockingly, and this time Arthur does not flinch, rather pulls out, walks past America and sits down at the table, taking Alfred's cup from the counter.

“Very well.” He sips the cold tea. “I remember someone saying just today: «you, the British Empire, are a very important ally." If this is an alliance for you, you will not go far. After all, I could greatly benefit you if we continued to communicate as independent countries."

"For example?" America sits down on the opposite end, watches, propping his cheeks on his fists.

"You should agree with me on this matter, at least," England takes another sip, his lips almost turning a normal color. "if you establish contact with Europe through me, then it is much better to let them consider us not an unanimous union, but partners with their own interests. It's a matter of trust."

"But in reality?" America practically spells the words out. He understands perfectly well that England is absolutely right, but also absolutely not honest.

"I will act in your interests." he confirms. The phrase warms Arthur with its hospitality, despite the fact that there is not a damn thing about it. But America is really believing it.

“Glad we bridged our gaps.” he laughs as he says this, seeing England chuckle mournfully, appreciating the moment of agreement.

Alfred stands up, takes the tea out of his fingers. He drinks in one gulp without really tasting it. He leans across the table towards him, seeing his reflection in England’s darkened eyes, noting another taste of tea from his thin, hard lips when he kissed it for the last time. He walks to the door without turning.

"Goodbye, England." the door slams.

Arthur grabs the cup convulsively, looking down at his trembling hands, listening to the hum of the boiling kettle.

There are nearly no chances. Nearly. The cup breaks with a crackling sound, red beads appearing on his fingers. England laughs, covering his face with his hands, staining his own blood.


	2. everything's alright.

The hotel was pretty good. Its high ceilings, well-filled with light and soft, beige and blue color schemes suggested America had a fashion sense. But England coped with this impulse, passing the brightly lit hallway and turning to the elevators.

The fashion sense. This straightforward and at the same time thoroughly two-faced had...ahem, Jones. It's unthinkable.

The elevator stopped. Arthur stepped outside, not even acknowledging his desire to escape. He really has no choice. That's it. And so his head is spinning as whenever his appetite approached. Because it’s been a while since his last meal.

As there is not enough money, weapons and production capacity. And this affects the embodiment of the country quiet ingeniously.

He walked past the stairs leading down from the middle of the corridor. He paused, pensively examining the curve of the structure, noting and hearing the click of the lock with the edge of his ear. How he wants to...

"Oh, England!" America jumps, grabbing him by his shoulders. A couple of years ago, Arthur would have angrily scolded him for the lack of decency. But now it would be enchantingly pitiful and pathetic: in the light of the real problems between them.

"Good evening, America. We haven't seen each other for a long time." he seems to be smiling friendly, but as he shakes his head that causes a new doze of dizziness and the smile disappears, Arthur rests his hand against the wall.

"What? Is everything _that_ bad?" Alfred asks carefully, squeezing his shoulders tighter and leads him into the room.

England clenches his teeth and doesn't answer. Jones knows perfectly well why he came. Why he staggers, why he lost even more weight than during the war. So why would he need to set up this fucking circus?

"Oh, fuck you." he finally says aloud, freeing himself, albeit for a short while, from the hands holding him. So, well, anyway, he can find the sofa on his own. That soft one. And somehow bright blue.

“Ha-ha-ha-ha,” America laughs condescendingly at his phrase. Kirkland is acutely aware of the awkwardness and absurdity of their meeting. And a sucking void in his stomach. It seems lunch time has passed already half an hour ago.

“You’re a jerk, Jones.” He clenches his fists. "And how did the part that is responsible for your brain bypassed you in the development process?"

"Do you really want me to be serious and official just for this?" Alfred walks up to him, his thumbs hooked into his pockets. He stops oppositely, looking down mockingly. "Maybe you’d like to order me to fuck you with glasses on too, huh, Artie?"

"Why, you —," England growls hoarsely, jumping up from the sofa, to which America, without changing his expression, responses by pushing him back.

"I am," he corrects his notorious Texas, jacket lapels. "Very much even me." His hands linger and he slowly pulls off his jacket, remaining in his military uniform like England.

Kirkland rolls over, sitting down again, that forgotten pirate grin on his face. Absolutely not gentlemanly.

"First thing, you Big Mac. Where is the contract?" Alfred lazily stretches, taking his hand out of his sleeve, turns to the table. From there, a simple white folder flies into England's lap.

“Copies are here.” Arthur reads, almost tasting the feeling that fills him. A note of relief: cowardly, inextricably linked to self-contempt. A little sympathy for Russia: after all, for Kirkland both socialism and the desire for power (alas even if a pathetic one) were, to put it mildly, not so foreign to him. And yet disappointment, disgust and despair: this is towards America. There was admiration, of course, but England, on the contrary, hid it on the other side of his soul, not even allowing him to realize it.

"How do you like it?" He flinches in surprise when America puts his head on his shoulder.

"Brilliant." God save the queen and sarcasm. “Gilbert should take you as an example, really. You are the most brilliant, calculating and gorgeous asshole on this planet, congratulations."

He lifts his chin from his shoulder. America’s hand lands in its place and England involuntarily glances at those fingers, remembering the unyielding power they possess. Meanwhile, the other hand from behind his back shoves a pen under his nose.

"Of course, your favorite Parker. It's funny that it was marked with the next number after you." He’s probably still pissed off, otherwise why would he be this completely and untimely sarcastic. "Just seriously, it’s numbered fifty-one and you're fifty, hee-hee."

"Come on, sign it already, British Empire." So America can be sarcastic too and oh! So many opportunities he has to ridicule Arthur too. Arthur squeezes the pen between his fingers.

"Should I sign this like it too? Under the British Empire?" he asks half-sarcastically, half-dramatically, secretly hoping for something else in the contract (although, yes, it would seem that he was reading the contract thoroughly and there was no room for hope anymore). His stupid belief in fairy tales and what-not.

"Sign under the name of the Great Britain, Artie, for real." America, sitting next to him, puts England's other hand on his waist, which makes his face stiff. "And hurry up, please."

The signature is not blundering, not too stiff. It is no different from hundreds of others, flaunting on tables and in archives of countries around the world. And you can't even tell that this signature should mean the end of the Empire. England traces it, subconsciously wanting to see an ugly trace behind his finger, lines smeared to one for a tainted agreement.

"See? Such a good use of new products." America takes his hand away from the sheet, taking a pen out of his fingers and casually throws it with the folder on the table. "No problem at all."

He moves closer and England sees that smile again. Even more like smirk. His lips again cover Arthur's and his hands are pressed into his pumped up body. And again England doesn’t want to be here and thinks of something else entirely, clutching at the edges of his jacket with his fingers.

But America notices. He presses his lips with his own, gripping their teeth. His hands are on his waist and on the back of his head, making it impossible to pull away. But Arthur's still not here with him.

"Damn you." Alfred breaks away, looking offendedly into those eyes, immeasurably older than his own. “I'm not really forcing you, actually. We are allies, partners. Are you saying you don’t need everything that I’m ready to provide in return?"

“I need it.” England is breathing heavily, fighting a new force of weakness. “Unbelievably, desperately need it. Too much for my government to consider any alternatives. I just don't have a choice."

"The agreement is designed for our cooperation." Alfred says, lingering on the tightly buttoned collar of England. “I don’t understand what doesn’t satisfy you.” He pulls down his dark green tie, noticing the Adam's apple twitching on his thin neck.

"And this is said by the idiot who fell under the bullets in order to be able to independently decide his fate." Arthur says wearily. As if he’s apologizing for the stupidity of his former pupil not even to America but rather to the whole universe above.

Alfred freezes. He stares at England, holding him by the shoulders and sees how pale and emaciated he has become. And he remembers the same tired but satisfied face, his hand in a sling, the box of soldiers extending to him. ("Just be careful not to break it, America.")

"Fuck, England. Why does everything has to be so complicated?" he holds his hand, childishly twisting the button on Arthur's shirt. "It's not my fault. I did everything by myself, I achieved everything by myself and do not regret anything." he still unbuttons the ill-fated button, revealing the protruding collarbones. "Especially now. It's not my fault that you are too weak. And this," he puts his warm palm on the freed skin area. "you will like it, I'm sure."

“Oh my God,” England breathes, closing his eyes and Alfred smiles with childish self-satisfaction for a second. But further words make him distort, contort in a grimace. “You're such an idiot, America. In more than a thousand years of history, which of course you have not studied, do you think that you will do something special with my body? Scotland, France, Spain…" a shadow falls over his face, he turns around, looking America firmly into the eyes. "Physically, there is nothing special in sex between us, the beauty is in psychology. To be on top. This is new to you, Alfie, but not to me." he sees anger in blue eyes, raises his hand in an apologetic gesture. "I didn’t have time to tell you about this side, I was waiting for you to grow up."

"Oh, well." the hand moves to his throat. He is trembling all over with resentment, rage and helplessness, his fingers move, unable to clench. "You — _Freak_! You smug, arrogant, insensitive little shit!" he senses amusement in England’s gaze and he shakes him by the shoulders, almost crying out of rage. "Did? I? Say? Something? Funny?"

"You," Arthur's voice gets lost and he intercepts Alfred's wrists, stopping him for some reason. "You…ha ha…clearly knew what to learn from me, America." he doesn’t remember when was the last time he was bursting with laughter as he is now.

The fingers on his clothes are shaking and Alfred unexpectedly pulls it out completely with both hands. Alfred looks at him with bright blue, sparkling eyes with tiny pupil dots. His face is pale, only few red spots above his eyebrow and on his cheeks. And his fingers are icy. Alfred has big hands (wider than England even if England's fingers are longer). But now he remembers the little hand on his arm as he sat desperately, hugging his knees. And warm, little fingers in his palm as he led America to him.

“Alfred,” he says softly, very softly, stroking his cold hands. "Calm down, Alfred. I —,"

He gets all the air knocked out of him when America hugs him, grabbing him uncomfortably and painfully. For a second, he panics when he tries to move, sighing in vain. And then America begins to cry, clutching him in his arms, glasses twisting over his shoulder. And he sighs cautiously, stroking his soft, disheveled hair.

“Everything’s alright.” he repeats an old phrase, like the world itself, because it’s those words that have to be said even if they are simply not needed. No matter how awful everything is especially when usually such a stubbornly positive guy like Alfred is crying in front of you...all you can say to him is that everything is fine. "Everything’s alright."

America soon calms down but doesn’t unclench his hands. He again holds England by his shoulders, peering into his face. The glasses are ridiculously stuck on his forehead and his face is still red and covered with tears.

"Is it true what you said then? That you and I have a special relationship?" he asks suddenly. England is silent, his face tenses again. "Isn’t it what you said to me?" Alfred repeats with pressure, sniffing.

"Yes." Arthur says. But he doesn't elaborate on what exactly until Jones smiles again. “The peculiarity of our relationship with you is forever inherent in history, I think.” he adds dryly, shrugging his shoulders. “And your concern is completely irrelevant here."

"Come on, does it really bothers you?" now Alfred laughs nervously while Arthur grimaces in indignation.

“Well, you know, if it doesn't bother you that we’re related...” he begins irritably, instantly freeing himself but Jones interrupts him.

“You yourself told me not to call you my brother.” He is almost solemn, as far as possible with the most disheveled appearance. “I don’t know if you thought about it but I must admit, when I grew up, I almost went crazy, deciding who you really are to me."

Arthur feels the blood rush and his heart beats in his chest like an untied balloon. America is watching with great interest.

"I ... did not want to …" the words hang on the tip of his tongue in shapeless lumps. "It's just ..." He finally gets over himself. “My brothers and I had an unusually lousy relationship and I was hoping to avoid this with you.” the indignation manifests itself again. “You're an idiot, Alfred Jones!"

Alfred adjusts his glasses, not embarrassed in the least.

“Don't be afraid, England.” he says seriously. "Our relationship will never be like this."

America reaches forward, gently touching Arthur’s lips. This is so strange. He's already kissed Arthur and knows how they feel. Not at all tender, chopped, thin and a little rough. That's not the point at all. It's all about the England’s bright, infinitely magical eyes.

He looks up with an effort and this time he flinches. Arthur's gaze expresses absolutely nothing, he is like a sunny forest but empty, devoid of life. In where all living things were killed.

"England." he says hoarsely but he shuts up as soon as he takes his fingers, removing them from his face and leans forward.

“You know, Alfred.” Arthur’s eyes are inches from his own, breathing into his lips. "I was never afraid of you. I was just hoping."

England himself kisses America, leaning his knee on the sofa, throwing his head back, and Alfred, in bewilderment, wraps his warm arms around his waist. This is pleasant and allows not to think about all these plans, intrigues and problems that wriggle in a ball in the back of his mind, adding up in combination.

Alfred holds him tighter, and at some point knocks him down on his knees, grabbing his shoulders with one hand. Arthur's head is spinning from this so that he completely yields to the initiative, only slides with the support of his weak hands on Jones's chest. He suddenly breaks the kiss, straightens his glasses.

“You're so damn pretty.” he says, his fingers digging into Kirkland's hair. "My England." He pulls him closer to him and Arthur can feel how excited he is. "Mine."

England hisses in displeasure through his teeth. He sits up abruptly, forcing Alfred, avoiding a collision, to straighten too, and covers him with a kiss, tightly closing their lips and grabbing Jones by the hair on the back of his head. Deepening the kiss with abandon and disobedience, enjoying the silence and aura of American indecision. For a second, America was dumpfounded but England’s thin, slick and demanding tongue instantly returns him to the state of "here and now" when he presses over his upper lip with pressure from the inside.

And America flares up like a torch. His trousers which have long since become tight, are now painful and he leans back, hugging Arthur with one hand, trying to open the zipper with clumsy fingers. But Arthur suddenly turns in his arms and by chance (was it by chance?) leans on his knee exactly on the naughty hand, causing Alfred to let a hissing moan escape. The body almost gives up its acute outburst of pleasure and America freezes.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” England breathes into his lips and moves his leg, swiping over the same place, forcing America lying under him to bend over, trying to catch an extra feeling of pleasure.

Alfred has glasses on again and his wide-open blue eyes makes him look younger than he really is all over again. Kirkland feels like an old pervert but immediately recalls how America impudently kissed him, pressing him against the wall in his own house and a slight hint of remorse of a non-existent shame disappears.

He again runs his knee over the America’s groin, giving him new bursts of pleasure. Saving his own ass, really. America groans loudly and he continues to move, returning to the kissing, stringy and in every sense dizzy. Well, if he doesn't bring Alfred to the peak right now because of his poor health, then hell, he deserves to bottom for his own ex-colony.

"A-ah, Eng—… Arthur ... I’m gonna ..." Kirkland grins out of the corner of his mouth, not breaking the kiss.

Damn it. America, now with his hand pinned to his fly and his foggy glasses strayed, looked half funny, half sexy and Arthur was uncomfortably aroused and irritated with this contrast. The question is whether to laugh out loud or fuck him, with all due respect, Sir Shakespeare.

He leans on Alfred's chest harder and pulls away from his lips, arching in the lower back and sliding down a little. His fingers closes over America's hand and slides under it, clenching. And America screams in a choked way, squinting and crunching under England, arching on the sofa. And god, Arthur even bit his lip to keep himself from moaning back. It seems America sprained his back. But it was worth it.

"How do you like it, luv?" he whispers barely audibly in Alfred's ear and no more word passes between them.

"It's okay," Arthur thinks, patting America's hair gently. "In the end, Francis ended up losing to me. And Antonio too. And...Alistair. You just have to be careful, America."

"It's okay," Alfred thinks, licking his lips and straightening up, pulling England off of him and looks him in eyes again and sees the forest again."A sunny forest. It's not even empty at all. It's just that those who live in it hid for a while." he’s sure.

He gets up and goes to the bathroom, not noticing how Arthur's hand twirls his pen thoughtfully around his fingers.


	3. let's make a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michel Henin - Belgium
> 
> Tim de Ward - Netherlands
> 
> Herbert Rhine - Luxembourg

America lay peacefully on the bed, legs dangling and munching potatoes, when his door began to kick rhythmically, forcefully. He nearly choked on another crunchy stick. Discontentedly muttering something under his breath, he got up and went to the door, not letting out the food. It, however, flew out of his hands as soon as he unlocked the lock.

On the threshold of the door, thrown open by another kick, stands England, evil as a severe hurricane. America even unconsciously backed away, which England used to swiftly enter the house.

"What are you up to, England?" Alfred asked, looking around the room now littered with potatoes and the culprit in the middle of the mess. "Did you miss me _that_ much?"

He unwittingly noted such trifles as increased bags under England’s eyes, a dull glow on disheveled hair, sharp breaks in features. He noted it because he knew that it is how it should be when he first called him to his place. Otherwise, Kirkland would naturally not have come, just as he had not come (America believed) for over a year before.

"You are such an asshole." it seems that England was silent for a few seconds, simply because he was picking up an insult. "What do you want?! I gave you money, collected new debts, but is that not enough for you?"

"Oh, England, where are your manners, ha-ha-ha-ha." Alfred walked around the room and flopped down on the bed, picking up a stick of potatoes. "It's not my fault that I love you and you lost your influence. Nobody forced you to come here too.»

He didn’t forced him, he just mailed a postcard to Kirkland. With one phrase: "Do you want to want to have a lunch with me?"

England inhaled sharply, exhaled, but if he tried to calm down, then the attempt was counted as a failure, because a second later he, jumped to the bed, clenched America's collar in his fists.

"Fuck you. What are you up to this time?" Kirkland looked down angrily, leaning very close. America was struck with a sweet tremor, but remembering the last time, for a while, he gave his thoughts a reasonable direction. He pulled England's hands off himself and got out of bed on the opposite side.

"I really came up with something." he said contentedly. "I have another idea about helping your impoverished bunch of aristocrats."

"For a price, of course." England interrupted, still breathing heavily.

"For a price, of course." Jones continued smugly. "And you better think about what kind of shit you would get yourself into without the help of the Hero."

Ignoring the angry grumbling, he unlocked the safe and handed England a thick folder, not failing to touch his palm in the process. It was as cold to the touch as it looked. Alfred wanted to warm it. And he wanted to make England himself burn in return. The same way Jones himself burned in shameful, unbearable memories. Scream, wriggle and endure the hot flames beating under the reddened skin. Now Arthur really flushed, reading even, thoughtful lines, but not at all in the way America wanted him to. England was in clear, directional fury.

“So, well, that's it.” he said in a low, hoarse voice, and Jones even winced in surprise. "Do you have any comments?" he held the folder around the corner, lifting it to his face level.

"Y-yes. Yes." America straightened. “I wanted to ask you for something." He saw England squinting at those words. “You’re something like my intermediary to Europe, so try to convey all the benefits to them. In short, convince them to participate."

“Of course,” England said in a mechanical voice. "And where would they be without you? And it's all? And you only called me for this? My God, you could have told me by phone."

They were silent, only the air between them was full of tension.

"Or…" he raised a twinkling, mysterious look at Jones, and he unconsciously opened his mouth. "You did not only wanted to see me for this, huh?" America was silent, only exhaled when Arthur slowly walked towards him, and held his breath when he without a shadow of doubt took his face in his hands. “Did you like it that much, Alfie?" Arthur asked, gently touching his neck and firmly running along the of Alfred’s torso.

America was staring intently, still holding it. He only firmly grabbed England by the forearms, not wanting to go through those moments of miserable, deceiving bliss again. This time everything will be the way he exactly wants it. And Arthur shouldn't think that he didn’t notice anything last time.

This time he was on the lookout, and England's hands, which had already slipped to his waist, were suddenly intercepted and crossed over his chest, and America took several quick steps towards the bed until England hung over it, held only by America’s strong grip.

“I liked it.” he smiled happily in Kirkland’s face. “I liked it very much. What about you?"

The remnants of a mad blush still glowed on his cheeks, but now they were fading away, revealing the usual pale skin.

“Yes.” he whispered, staring straight into America's eyes. "And you enjoyed yourself as well, didn't you?"

"You know.” Alfred leans even more over the bed. "Only now I would like to clarify one detail." He lets go of England, and he in a desperate attempt to hold on to Alfred's long-suffering collar. Alfred puts his palms on Arthur’s cheeks: copying his gesture a moment ago."We’re both having fun, Artie. I want everything to be fair."

He closes his eyes, also goes down to his neck, with pressure running his thumbs under the collarbones, caressing the pulses along the sides of the throat. Hands close at his neck clench as he abruptly lowers his own onto England's waist, one pressing tightly against his stomach and the other sliding against the lower back.

"You …" America opens his eyes sharply. Arthur's stifled whisper seems to sober him up and everything returns to shades, sounds, notes, reality.

Shiny green orbs under dark thick eyebrows, pale face. Own heavy breathing and frequent, superficial foreign. The faint smell of his room (of sauces, stale clothes) and the strong smell of tea and burnt pastries (England’s smell). England is in his house, in his rucks, on his bed. Under him, that is.

And he moved his hands even lower, catching the heat, elasticity and slenderness of the body under the fabric.

Arthur jerked and, grabbing the collar with one hand, briefly punching Alfred with his knuckles in the nose, smashed him. He slipped out of Jones's weakened embrace and jerked convulsively once more, toppling over onto the bed. He underestimated the fact that his knee-length legs were pressed tightly to the bed. And now he sat looking at America with absolutely fierce eyes.

"Yeah." Alfred was surprised."And I thought we already went through this." There was resentment in his voice, and Kirkland chuckled, hating himself for it.

"Well, you know, everyone has their own concept of pleasure." America rubbed his nose noisily. Blood had already stopped flowing from him. "Fuck, your regeneration is something." Arthur was sincerely amazed.

“Fuck, you are actually surprised.” America said menacingly, to which England raised his eyebrows.

"And what are you waiting for? Languid groans and declarations of love?" he winced. "Fucking shit, I'm tired of calling you an idiot."

Jones snapped his fingers nervously, feeling confused again. Something prevented me from simply taking matters his own way and...never letting go. That is, there was no problem in this: the more England resisted, the more America wanted him. But what the fuck is this.

"Yes, well, God knows." England responded, and Alfred realized that he had voiced the last phrase. A cloudy suspension of guilt, shame, desire and...loneliness shot up inside again, and he just froze, bowing his head and looking at the tensed Arthur.

"I get it.” he said, and immediately pushed England back onto the bed, climbing in behind him. "I know what our problem is!" and he laughed happily again.

"Did you finally went crazy or what?!" Kirkland shouted in his ear, trying to twist himself away. "Asshole, don't you dare, fuck, falling on top of me. You are actually heavy!"

Alfred could not calm down, flinching with laughter. He laughed all this time, while catching furious England that was trying to punch him again by his hands, pressing his whole body to the coverlet, only letting them go to try to shut Arthur's mouth with his palm and say the most important thing. But at last he guessed to pull off the tie from his neck and, awkwardly crumpled it up, shoved it between Arthur's teeth, scratching his finger until it bled. And finally he was able to achieve silence by sitting on England's stomach and pinning it by pinning his arms to the bed. Now he tries to stop his nervous laugh because no, he is not crazy.

"You…ha ha…England, listen to me. I got it. I got it huh. We're just loners. Lone, haha, wolves. Predators, for fuck’s sake. You know, wolves, they actually live in packs. And the leader, Artie, would never raise a wolf to replace himself. Because they kill each other for power, they gnaw their throats. Like this!" He bent down, biting his teeth into that pulse, which he had gently touched recently. Clutching jaws, stifling laughter beating in his throat, only (for God's sake!) without looking into the eyes of the person who was petrified under him. He continued dully, burying himself in England’s neck. "And you raised me. You didn’t eat me, you didn’t kill me, you didn’t break me. You raised me as your equal, going against to your own instincts. Or maybe they just failed you. And now...now I am the leader, not you. I like it, you don't. But you'll have to come to terms, because I understood what the problem is between us and I'm going to solve it. Clear?"

He waited, pressing his lips to the swollen, bruised, bite site. Waited: not really clear what was he waiting for because even England, with all his desires, could not answer him. And then a drop flew across his glasses. And the second, walking along the beaten frame on the glass. And he suddenly realized with horror how England was shaking in uncontrollable sobs, unable to break through the dense fabric.

America let him go. He stood up, clutching his own hair, as if trying to rip it out by the roots. However, if he really tried to, something would surely work out of it. England yanked his tie out of his mouth and hoarsely, low in his voice screamed, clutching the covers with his trembling fingers. Alfred couldn’t stand this. He flew into the street like a bullet without locking the door and jumped into the first taxi, giving a random address.

Returning three hours later, he did not find a trace of England in his apartment, only there were splashes on the bathroom mirror and the inscription in red through all the glass that formed the word: "Deal".

* * *

The light of the spring sun passing through thin curtains, gently dissipated in the room. Reflecting on Belgium's watches, metal parts and earrings, it trembled in shapes of small bunnies on the walls, endearingly enlivening the dark green walls. But the countries paid no attention to the situation at all. Even France, always so picky about those matters, did not let go of a single sneer. The tension was in the air.

“Okay, okay.” England, coughing irritably, broke the silence. “I know you three are thinking why I called you. So I will say it now. This concerns the security of Europe, and no," he interrupted Michel's frightened expression. "there is not a single thought of any planned attacks, we are not crazy."

"Why then bother so much about it?" Tim asked reasonably.

“Well, even if we ourselves are not crazy doesn’t mean that the others are not have gone to madness, and simply the fact that you don’t really have to do anything right now in this situation so you’re the one talk.” England snapped, and added reluctantly, seeing the indignation on the faces of the others. "We are all much more effective in protecting our interests together."

“Arthur, mon cheri, you forgot to mention other benefits.” Francis said. “Economical and political, for example. America…"

“I just haven't made it to it yet.” Kirkland snapped again but this time nervously, as he was weighing the appropriateness of moving on to the next subject. "Come on, tell us yourself about it, since you care about it that much."

"Oh, don't get pissed off. I will gladly take your place on this stage.” He winked at England, who squinted viciously at him. "So, Mesdames et Messieurs, as I said, the five of us will gain significantly in terms of the economy: thanks to the creation of conditions for free trade in Europe. Those who do not join us will pay a single fee, the amount of which we set."

"But what about America?" Luxemburg asked unexpectedly. England glared at him in displeasure, missing France’s glimpse at him.

“America clearly doesn't need help.” England grumbled. "Rather, on the contrary, he is able to provide us with significant support." He frowned even harder. "And don't you interrupt us again and just listen as we just wanted to cover over this topic."

“Yes, of course, I'm sorry.” Herbert drawled, clasping his fingers in front of him. "Continue, please. As far as I can see, cooperation also implies a common policy."

“Quite right,” France smiled. “Since we will be united economically, it would be unreasonable and selfish to otherwise go against the interests of each of us. It's good that there are no egoists among us or otherwise…"

"Well. You heard our proposal." Arthur took out a bundle of sheets from the contract, which he handed out to the countries. "Look, is there any ideas, objections, questions? Yes Michelle?"

“Mr. Kirkland.” the girl held her finger over the paragraph. "I have a question about support for external aggression. I mean, it doesn't say anything about what it should be."

“Very well.” de Vard said immediately. He found this paragraph interesting too. "That means if Braginsky climbs up to you, Kirkland, with hugs, I can just pat you on the shoulder sympathetically? Cool!"

“It’s more likely that he’ll have to pass by you first.” England muttered.

“Oh, Arthur, I'm sure he’ll come up with something.” Bonnefoy grinned, making him look even more displeased.

"Well, in general, it is unreasonable." Luxembourg declared, raising the sheet to their face levels. “Because ours and yours, Sir Kirkland and Monsieur Bonnefoy, military resources are simply disproportionate."

"In short, you demand to register a clause on mandatory military participation in the event of any aggression from outside?" England asked, picking up the contract from the floor and placing it on his lap.

Countries, thinking for a bit, nodded. Arthur muttered something under his breath, running his hands over the suitcase. Then he again took out the papers and, with a throw, distributed them among countries that only started their alliance no more than five minutes ago. Those with a slight suspicion stared at the amendment that was just announced, flaunting on fresh sheets.

“Bon.” France said, stroking the strangely warm paper, and reached for the pen. "You seem in a hurry, however, Arthur, why would you be?"

"Oh, stop that." England waved away, signing his copy. "Our governments will drag out the red tape for a week anyway. And this is if no one starts a strike there," and he, looking at Francis shrewdly, drew attention to the Benelux trio. "Come on, pass in a circle. Tim?"

When the formalities and courtesies were over, England was stopped at the exit by Francis. He simply stayed at the door and closed it, as soon as Tim and Michelle disappeared after Herbert. Kirkland gave him his usual mixture of anger and bewilderment as he stopped in the opposite.

"Sorry, cheri, may I ask you something?"

"What's the matter? I’ve gotten enough of your pranks at the meeting anyway, and you’re still continuing to stick your nose up in other people’s business."

"I don’t do it. You just gather companies very rarely, I may be curious."

“You shouldn’t be.” England snapped, despite the fact that Francis’s intonation didn’t suggest a question. "Especially you of all people…"

"Don't get started, hey!" Bonnefoy raised his hands in warning."You are even more hostile than usual. Everything is going relatively better, what’s the matter then?"

“Yes, it’s getting better.” England muttered. "And if your face disappears from the horizon, it will be such a cherry on top. Get out, France, otherwise I can’t even think properly without a single thought of strangling you."

"Are you in trouble, Arthur?" Bonnefoy asked, easily interrupting the claims.

"I don’t have any problems, idiot!" England snapped. "Will you go away yourself or will you let me kick you out?"

"Okay. I just asked, do not yell like that." he moved away, freeing the passage. "I could help if only you’d ask for it."

Kirkland just snorted as he walked away with his nose raised.

“Hey, Artie, you’ll get your nose stuck in a door frame like that.” Francis shouted since he couldn’t resist but England just shuddered and quickened his pace without turning around.


	4. no reason at all.

Alfred sat with his knees tucked to his chest. He was alone. The door was firmly locked so no one could see the nuclear superpower huddling in a corner and shivering like a frightened beast.

“America." a voice came from outside. Jones groaned at its sudden and annoying sound. "America, why are you locked up there? Hey! Let me in already, or, you know, I'll kick this door down to hell!"

Alfred bit his lip. He was at a loss, but frankly did not want to show himself in such state in front of England, so it was necessary to urgently pull himself together.

The door grunt with a kick from the foot, and the lock flew off with a high-pitched squeal and clang. Just as Jones flew off the wall he was leaning on in a panic attack. And when England, knitting his eyebrows, entered the office, America was already standing, leaning one hand on the table, and with the other propping up his side. Expressing (at least trying to express) with his whole body a carefree confidence. Only the rosy cheeks spoiled everything.

"Why are you in such a hurry, Artie? Are the unicorns chasing after you?" He asked, hiding moronic embarrassment and fear behind insolence.

"Hmm, let me think." England put his finger to his chin in a picturesque way, which Alfred carefully followed after. "No. I was just afraid that your brains would run away along with the remnants of courage." America blushed again, this time it was more about anger.

"What is this aggressiveness in the early morning?" keeping the mark of mockery, he asked, but now England clearly had more chances to piss off the other.

"Oh, come on." he came closer. "As if you weren’t sitting here thinking about how poor and unhappy you are. Well, and about how gloriously everything was turning out to be, of course." America wavered.

"As if you weren’t thinking the same way." he muttered.

"I was _just_ thinking." England said sarcastically. “I told you to act more decisively, not waiting for Russia to make the bomb too. And you just continued coming up with excuses..."

"It's not fair!" America shouted. "What kind of Hero would I be if I did that?"

"...And now you don't know what to do, right?" meanwhile, Arthur, without changing his poisonous tone, measured Alfred's problem. "You might have been imagining there are going to be long and calm years of power ahead, and you get an atomic Braginsky instead..."

"England." Jones bit his lip and raised his hand. "Don’t."

"What? Now you can’t just bury your head in the sand."

"Don't put pressure on me! I'll...I'll figure it out myself. Fuck off."

"Yeah, alright." England turned on his heels in a military way and walked to the door.

"Fuck, don't go, but shut the fuck up!" America barked, rushing to the door and intercepting England's outstretched hand. "I'll decide for myself, myself, understand?! And you will help me out."

Kirkland gave him a look that was slightly less warm than the Arctic.

"How can I help you? You are much stronger than me, America. I can only help with words, advice. The criticism that you so cowardly avoid."

"Or support." America breathed, pulling Arthur by the hand and embracing him in an absolutely chaste embrace. "It's just, damn it, when you know that at least someone loves you."

He felt bad now, scared. He knew he wanted to find one single corner on the entire planet where he would be accepted. It so happened that there was nothing (no one) except for England. And so he again stood now, clutching himself to him. Not a shadow of excitement: just a tiny, wavering patch of warmth.

"I like your company. I always calm down around you." he said sincerely, breathing in such a familiar smell, enjoying this closeness.

"Let me go." England suddenly demanded dully. "Right now. America!"

"Don't yell at me."

America eagerly caught the last seconds of false peace. Until Arthur begins to twist, set barriers between them to avoid him. To irritate him. He clenched his hands tighter, squeezing England until his tense muscles tremble, completely unwilling to let go.

"I’m not a pillow, I dare say." He sounded dry and muffled under his ear. "So be kind, take your hands off or I'll go look for someone smarter."

And America laughed, shifted, bringing them closer to the table with every step, ignoring the fingers clutching at his sleeves.

"And who would that be, Artie? Now you can go but if not to me, then only to Russia. He, of course, is a handsome guy but…" he did not notice how England freed his hand but a flash of pain was already burning on his cheek.

"I never said…"

"But he won’t accept you. And he will be alright just without you. Because you are a jerk." America has intercepted a new swing. England jerked as if Jones was the one who had hit him. Or maybe he was just getting choked. "But you're a fucking attractive one.” Alfred finally pressed England with his lower back to the tabletop, breathing the words straight into his lips. "Then no. I'm not going to let you go. And forget about Ivan."

Arthur grimaces sarcastically. Right in front of him, an inch in front of his eyes, and it is so infuriating that instead of kissing him, America squeezes his hands with all his might, but only elicits a hoarse, sinister laugh. England is insanely attractive, but his words are freezing cold dryness, like plaster on cold.

"Ivan...Ivan is strong. And he's far away. That's what all your excuses, all your slowness and indecision are for. But he can fight back. That’s all. Otherwise, he would have stood in my place now." America flares up with indignation, shakes Arthur by the shoulders.

"Should I have given him _my_ place then?" he shouts angrily. "Huh, Artie? You said not to anger him, you said he was dangerous. And he might have agreed to peace, if I offered him such a jackpot like you. I could. Because it's fucking impossible to communicate with you normally." And as he speaks, it looks less and less like an offense, more and more like a threat.

"Come on." Kirkland hisses in his face. "Come on. Do it. Let's see. Maybe I will be much better with him. After all, we've known each other much longer than you ever existed. And of course he won't be talking about love and shit."

America falls into a stupor. He was expecting fright, waiting for tears and pleas for mercy, but not that England once again trample on his feelings. His hands unclench, and Kirkland slips out with ease, rubbing his wrists.

"You're an idiot, Alfred." he says calmly. "Braginsky’s a psycho. He is not interested in your money, and you have nothing more to offer, certainly not me." He grins. "Now you need me. I have created a ready-made European Union, and everyone is waiting only for you. And together…"

"No." America interrupts him roughly. He has already come to his senses.

"Excuse me, did I hear you right?"

"You're useless. Everyone, except for Ivan, will agree to what I propose. Let him just play the lonely Hero with his own slaves. I even like it. Anyway, sooner or later he will also come to me for help."

They are silent until England finds the strength to speak.

"And why are even with me then?" he asks quietly, and America is sincerely happy with the asked question. He walks up again, hugging Arthur's shoulders.

"There is no reason. I just love you." he says. England wants to say something, opens his mouth, frowning. But America already gets bored of their talk. He gently places his fingers on Arthur's lips, and Arthur gags on unspoken. "No need to say anything, I don't need advice. I'm still stronger than Russia, so I'll just send him to hell and let him go crazy. And you and I will be together. I can always protect you."

He removes his hand, slowly leaning towards England's face, planting his lips with his own. England is silent, calmly responds to the kiss. America bends his neck, throwing back Arthur's head, going deeper along the foreign flexible tongue, revels in this harmony between them. And he completely does not notice the rage in the green eyes, reliably hidden under the eyelashes.


	5. the team work.

"He’s getting on my fucking nerves already!"

England rattled the door as he walked into the back of his apartment. With pleasure, he plopped down into a chair, instantly forgetting about posture and gloss, rubbing his lips with his palm. Five minutes later he got up and picked up the black worn receiver of the phone, almost without looking at interacting with the disk.

"Braginsky? Yes, this is Kirkland. Is our agreement still in force?…No, I just need something else …I’ll pay the price, I’ll try…"

America listened to the recording with a darkened face, occasionally sneezing. Disgusting quality, crackling, confusing by the muttering voices of Arthur and Ivan. And a lie. Betrayal, hypocrisy. Does England really hate him that badly? They have so much in common, they are partners, he helps England more than anyone else, according to the government anyway. So what the hell?

* * *

England, gripping his knees to his chin, sat in an armchair and sipped tea from a huge mug. In truth, there was much more scotch than tea, but that didn’t matter. He grumbled, becoming more and more stressed.

"Everyone, everyone is looking for friends on the side. Alright, I wasn't going to be friends with anyone right now but why the hell did they all decide to talk to anyone but me. Even with this useless Italy, even with him! Why! And all because of America. He simply scares away friends from me. Even Matt turned away from me…"

Someone knocked on the door. Kirkland perked up, his gaze defocused.

"Who would this fucker be!" he snapped.

"Open it, England, it's me, America!" Someone yelled outside the door, causing Arthur to have a headache. "Hey, open it up, quickly!"

"Speak of the devil and here he is!" England muttered, reluctantly sliding off the chair. The door would not be a trouble for America to break, for sure. He's in general now, as it were, in his own opinion, a hero.

He unlocked the lock, stepping back relaxedly, so that America burst inside the house, grabbing him with his usual impudence. Only not as usual: not by the shoulders, but by grabbing him with his forearms, causing an attack of acute disorientation and nausea.

"Idiot!" England shouts.

No, he's really tired of it. He noticed that it was often over the past decade that Jones had triggered this reaction. The same one, letting the scream deafen his ears while America drags him into the bedroom and there throws him on the bed, causing new waves of indignation.

"I didn’t seem to drop you as a child! Hey, you!" the last sound is already slightly frightened, because America does not react, hovering over him. "What are you doing?"

"I came to see you!" America looks with clear blue eyes. "Aren't you happy?"

"Get off me!" Arthur tenses, it seems to him that he is about to throw off this carcass, but in fact, his hands slide along the sides of America, without moving it. And then they are intercepted, depriving them of the much-needed support. "America, are you deaf? Jones!"

"You need me, and I need you," Alfred just looks back with such a timid smile. If England were not now pressed against the pillow, he would easily compare America to a naive girl. But the way Alfred holds him has nothing to do with general timidity. "My England." and instead of an encouraging smile on his face there is an evil grin.

"I do not belong to you."

Six words that are very important to him. But America ignores them too, without changing his enthusiastic and cautious expression.

"What are you staring at?! Can you leave me alone for once, you little bastard?…"

And Jones thoughtfully examines the man beneath him, who are trying to move away, throw him out of bed, passing reproaches and demands. He is tensely thinking of what to do. In the end, he promised to solve the problem between them. And the Heroes promise, even if no one needs it except themselves.

Meanwhile, England's anger combined with alcohol threatened to turn into uncontrollable fury. America only reacted when Kirkland, who had pulled himself up the bed, gripped his finger with his teeth, instantly biting to the core. America yelled, letting go of the Englishman, who kicked, rolled awkwardly, crushing his tie with his elbow, and jumped up from the other side of the bed.

"What the fuck with you?" Arthur was already bursting with rage. "Is there no one for you to fight with? Go fuck with Braginsky, since it's so cool. Come on, or are you too scared?"

This is said in vain. America remembered what he actually came for, he also jumps up, clenching his fists.

"Fuck with him? Is that what you say? Isn’t it ironic how you are the one who communicates with him, trades of all people?" he blurts out. "I heard everything, I know everything."

"Oh, he knows!" England laughs demonically, not at all embarrassed. "Do you know that I have other money besides your beautiful dollars? And that it is actually worse than poison for all us?" he waves his hands, and among the drunken gestures the fact definitely slips out of his lips. "Have you ever fucking thought what _you_ did wrong for _me_ to keep in touch with him? I really hate him, only, fuck, even he is better than you in some way, and he doesn’t…oh!"

America suddenly jumped over the bed, coming face to face with Arthur.

"I don’t like it," America smiles at him, again terribly reminding Braginsky in his best years. But England has seen it before.

"And what will you do?" he asks with the courage of a truly drunken gentleman. "After all, I'm not the only one trading with him."

America freezes for a while, then, pushing England onto the bed, walks past him to the phone, dials the number (of his superiors), writing something down in a notebook. Arthur sits down, looks at him, wondering how big of a pig he has put on Europe itself.

The conversation was short, and America sinks down next to him, lies down with his hands behind his head and closes his eyes. America is still smiling.

"So?" England was the first to break the silence. Jones' smile widens, and he slides the notebook into his trousers pocket without opening his eyes.

"If you kiss me, I’ll give it up," he says, and cheerfully adds to the unspoken accusation. "Scout's word!"

Arthur looks down annoyedly. It was predictable, but nevertheless he thinks for a second that he could hit America in the head with that little thing, and then calmly find out everything. However, alas, this is inconceivable, because after that you cannot escape from Jones.

America is waiting, he really does not peep, because he is confident in England. And only when the lips of other resolutely close with his, he looks up. Checks. Arthur leans on bent arms, knee under Jones's side. He is like a spring, ready at any moment, to break away, fly away, and Alfred does not like this at all. As well as the kiss itself, to be honest. He never thought kissing could be so…dry. Business-like. And even on a drunken head.

Arthur moved away very quickly, but America just pulled the covers over himself, knocking him off balance, and caught him by the hand. This time, he was lucky to grab the second one before a fist hit his nose.

"Kiss me normally." he lets out. "It's worth it, I promise."

"Fucking horny teenager." England throws at him and bites into his lips like a leech.

Only this particular leech causes not disgust in America, but quite a tangible excitement. He, having successfully avoided a knee blow, pushes Arthur onto his back and flops down, hastily pulling off his pants. For this you have to let go of your hands and lips, and a thunderous hurricane forms in the place of Kirkland.

"Fu-uck off!" gasping for air, he yells, and Alfred still gets hit on the nose with his fist. And Arthur kicks him in his jaw which makes him lean back. Arthur has already flown out of bed and is standing in a shirt, boxers and tie. "Fucker." he said. "Scout's word. Bullshit!"

America, scratching his chin in displeasure, jumps happily at the last phrase and runs out of the room, buttoning his trousers on the way.

"Canada came!" he yelled, and England, instantly silent, also heard the ringing at the entrance. For a moment, he is numb with horror not knowing what to do but while pulling on his pants, he has time to discard this option.

"What the hell?" He flies into the corridor. "Did you call him and said to come over? You…"

"Hello America. Oh hello…England?" Canada has already entered, and now for the first time noticed the owner, who is standing, clutching the doorframe, and for some reason, terribly angry.

"Hi Matty!" America happily pats him on the shoulder, hugs him. "I didn't have time to warn Arthur that you were coming, but come in. England, do you mind?"

"Good evening." Ignoring Jones, Arthur smiled forcefully at Canada. "How does Newfoundland feel like?"

"It's alright," Canada blushed slightly.

"How are you?" Kirkland only pretends to be interested to seem polite, and England is really perfect at it, but the general impression is such that he still absolutely does not give a shit at all. Matthew blushes a little more.

"Well…I’m great. We played hockey recently." he sighs. "and so...Alfred and I are doing…"

"Oh, well, I'm glad you're doing well," England interrupts him with the same amiable smile. "Do not stand at the entrance, go to the kitchen, America, perhaps, will pour you some tea. I am now going to leave for some time…"

He quickly returns to the bedroom, tidies up. Finding what he expected, he chuckles. Then he slowly straightens his tie, noting that a button on the sleeve has come off. He takes a pin out of the dresser and connects the edges with it from the inside. For a while, he simply stands, hanging his arms relaxed, and then with a measured step he leaves the room.

"So, my dears, what is your idea?"

He appears in the kitchen while Matthew laughs loudly. It seems that he and Alfred are discussing hockey, but upon his arrival, with an effort, they pull out a serious look.

"We want to create a team against Braginsky." America says, casually removing the near notebook he just brought, and happily sips from the mug. Cocoa. The water is boiling.

"Mmm," England says, pulling a can from the top shelf. "What do we want there, Matthew?" Turning sharply, he still managed to notice the slight confusion on William’s face.

"Well as Alfred just said…we would like to help other countries feel safe."

"That wasn’t exactly what Alfred said." Arthur pours the liquid and adds three spoons of coffee, mockingly observing the surprise of the brothers. "But I like your version better. And who are these lucky ones? As far as I understand, the Brussels guys are coming in a set, and now Bonnefoy will probably bring Italy with him."

"That's right," America nodded. "Plus, from the south, probably Portugal."

"And from the north Denmark and Norway." Canada put in. "with Iceland."

"That's it." concluded Arthur thoughtfully. "Very well."

"So you don't mind?" the brothers smiled.

"Hey, the agreement will be in essence: military cooperation, mutual assistance and so on?" he bowed his head, tasting the coffee. It was still too strong.

"Well, yes, like that." America shrugged.

"And I also want to create an organization with a different profile. Do you remember the project named "United States of Europe"?" At the last word Jones slightly dropped his jaw. England admired the sight and continued. "Well, Churchill, Fulton. Remember? Although as soon as you heard about a special relationship, you cried out of happiness and I doubt you listened to the speech any further than that."

"Why would we need another association?" Canada asked in bewilderment, turning his head from England to America.

"I’d say he will have his own business to deal with. It seems like it would be more about not military issues, but more about human rights." England waved a mug in the air. "Legality, culture and everything like that."

He pauses a little bit before continuing, watching Alfred grab his biscuits:

"And I am not inviting you either," Arthur glanced sideways at America. "I'm just telling the idea." he barely restraints himself saying "idiot". "And everyone would be satisfied. Except for Russia, I suppose. By the way, help yourself."

"Hah, well, yeah," And then it dawned on Alfred _what_ he was eating, and he opened his mouth full of the remnants of a cookie with a mute resentment. "What is it?"

"Idiot!" He couldn’t resist any longer. "Biscuits with cinnamon! You already ate more than half, by the way! Matthew, can you pick him up already? Until he would had the misfortune to grab other stuff in my house and mess it up too."

So that you, God forbid, would never leave me alone with him again, Kirkland continued mentally.

* * *

Arthur closed the door and slid down on it.

"The world...The world has always been a theater," he muttered lyrically. "There was a place of tragedy, comedy, falsehood and, of course, acting. But it was only with the arrival of America on the world stage that the world began to turn into a circus." the muttering turned into a hiss. "With the main fucking heroic clown and his pigeons!"

England got up and returned to the bedroom, where he picked up a torn piece of paper from America's notebook, on which he wrote during the telephone conversation. After reading it, he shakes his head sadly and waddles over the bed to the phone.

"Hello, Ivan?…No, it's okay, I just can't pay now…I…No, that's not the point…Listen, It’s not my fault, it's just…Hey!"

There are monotonous, identical beeps in the receiver.

* * *

That one past memory can’t leave England alone. And he's thinking, maybe it was what made even Ivan turn away from him too.

"Ludwig should not suffer for following the orders of the command!" America said, and England nods in agreement, standing very close to him.

Ivan kept a smile, as if getting prepared for start of the massacre. He is so pale that in contrast to the darkness surrounding his broad shoulders, his face appears pale. He clenches his fists, noticeably as the new leather gloves squeak with a heartbreaking loudness.

"This does not mean that I have no right to beat him?" the naive question sounded in an Assembly room, and England grits his teeth.

"Don't be silly, Russia," Jones puts his hand on Braginsky's shoulder. "Of course, it means just that! It's not his fault."

"It’s always this one excuse," the aura sways, grows, and Arthur even hears screams in it. "But it still doesn’t matter. He’s guilty." The screams grow louder and England hurriedly bar in, raising his voice.

"Sorry, Ivan, but this won’t support your argument," he gets a look of purple eyes protruding and continues, confused. "Because…no, we are here to help. Let the Beilschmidt pay, and he should pay a lot, yet he should be able to do it."

"Are you saying we have to help him now? How?" Francis, too, carefully keeps the tracks of the conversation.

"I’ll help everyone," America says. "And you, Russia, as well. And we need to help Germany too, so that he can work for us, pay money…"

"Money doesn't solve anything!" this is rare, but Braginsky nervously chops off America's phrase. "I'm not interested in how much he will pay. I want him to understand that he did a bad thing, even if for this he will have to carry his nose through the photographs of murdered children, women, and old people until he bleeds out himself!"

"You saw that he understood what he did, and he is ashamed!" France is already shouting, coming closer. "Ludwig is not at all the one to blame. It's all because of this Gilbert! This is his fault, he is the elder one, and Ludwig just succumbed."

The edges of Russia's scarf begin to flap like the tentacles of a giant gray squid...Countries are silent, looking at him, until a cough broke the silence. Everyone looked at Arthur.

"Well." drawled England. "To tell you truth, Ludwig, when he caught me at the beginning of the war, looked like a fucking nutcase, but he did nothing of the horrors described by Braginsky. Maybe, of course, because he didn't have enough time…"

"Hah, because the hero saved you in time!" shouted America, but here in the pause the creak of Ivan's gloves especially sharply cut in. "Russia, we are a team. Just accept that maybe it's not really Ludwig?"

"Great, and what about Gilbert?" With a grin in place of a smile asked Russia, causing a new hitch. America noticed that a pair of teeth in a smile was missing, but with a heroic effort he restrained himself and did not say this out loud, shifting his gaze to the hushed allies.

Each of the countries present here had memories, and they were not at all about friendly gatherings.

"This is a completely different matter." now they all stood gloomily, even Ivan and Alfred. The latter continued. "He's dangerous. He is a real fascist!"

"Nazi," England corrected mechanically.

"Fuck it." America flushed, rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I think we can even allow ourselves to…"

"Dismember him?" Braginsky asked cheerfully. "I am all here for it!"

"No!" England and France cried out in one voice, England continued. "We could weaken him up. Seriously. And try keep him under control."

"Under whose control?" Braginsky again shone with unhealthy enthusiasm, and America happily got an idea.

"He’s all yours. I don’t feel sorry for him at all."

"What about Ludwig?" to knock Russia out his obsessive thoughts could only a missile. Or a bomb. Nuclear.

"Well, he’ll keep on living, Russia." France said quietly. "With us."

"Keep on living, then. So you want to help Ludwig." Ivan said calmly. "To support, to exchange everything that we will extract from his territories, to import the necessary things. And so when it comes to me no one gives a shit."

"So you disagree." England translated, chuckling at the brevity of the original message. "Fundamentally."

"Aha." America, having jumped to France and England, pushes them to himself closer and shrilly loudly announces. "Well, we'll have to cope without you, Russia! No one else, only the three of us."

"Dear America." Francis, looking sideways at England, gracefully gets out from under Alfred's paw. "You, mil pardon, two. And I'll settle down next to you somehow myself, and we'll see."

"This is how you arranged everything, America," Ivan had already turned his back on them, and one could only guess about the expression on his face. "Alright. What could I do. Only I'm not going to have any business with you anymore, you should take that into account."

"You’ll be just fine," America said. "We don’t even need you that much. C’mon guys!"

And the three of them left, leaving behind one big Ivan, silently emitting angry streaks of darkness. Only Francis looked behind guiltily.


End file.
